by Tash Skilton
(On the other hand, beer’s not liquor exactly. It’s wheat! It’s fine!)
TheDuchessB: Let’s do it.
GreatSc0t: Looking forward to it! Here’s the address. See you then. :)
* * *
I plunk down $30.06 (two take-out dinners) for a taxi ride to Porchlight, because it’s only the second company meeting Clifford has held since I started working for him, and I want to appear to be a model employee. It’s galling, per his latest memo, to know he might not even attend, but I can’t risk not showing up.
The taxi ride is a sensory nightmare. Besides the endlessly blaring TV that can’t be muted or turned off, the a/c is on too high and I don’t have my arm warmers to console me. I stare out the window like a dog trapped in a car headed for the pound. To my right is the Hudson River, aka the setting of the Miracle on the Hudson. Sully CANNOT be a hoax. I need Sully. I need the Miracle on the Hudson.
Bicyclists and joggers look loose-limbed and almost free, flying past one another on the surprisingly wide, clean-looking sidewalk along the edge of the water.
Maybe next weekend I’ll have the courage to join them.
It’s a nice thought, anyway.
* * *
“Did he ask you to be the ‘international face of the company,’ too?” I ask Aisha Ibrahim loudly, trying to be heard over the cacophony of the bar. We’ve secured ourselves a dim spot in the corner.
She grins and rolls her eyes. “How ever did you guess?”
With her smooth brown skin, bootcamp-toned arms, curly black hair, and mischievous smile, Aisha would look great in front of a camera; but her expertise lies on the other side of the lens. She’s shorter than me, but fit and mighty from her thrice-weekly kickboxing classes, which I know about because it’s the only time her phone’s unresponsive. As the photographer and Photoshop expert at Sweet Nothings, she’s in high demand, helping our clients slap a Vaseline filter over their online images. That sounds unskilled, when nothing could be further from the truth. Aisha turns profile pics into seamless works of art, covering her tracks so well no one can tell she’s cast a spell. Although we’ve spoken on the phone a few times, this is our first in-person conversation, and meeting her has already made the trip worth it, I decide.
“We could’ve been famous,” I lament.
We clink our four-dollar punch flasks together, purchased with drink tickets Clifford provided. They were given to us by a man in a hockey uniform at the door, whom Clifford has apparently hired as some kind of mascot for the midafternoon soirée. The hockey player’s jersey has the Sweet Nothings logo on it, complete with hearts and a cupid arrow. Weirder still: The guy is wearing a mask.
A hockey mask. Inside a bar.
“Sweet Nothings!!” the dude shouts every couple of minutes, for reasons unknown. Is it to amp up the crowd? Is it a team-building exercise? Who can say? Maybe Clifford pays him per shout.
“What is the deal with Clifford’s memos?” I groan in my best Seinfeld voice. “Did you see today’s paranoid freak-out? My favorite part was the caveat at the beginning.”
“The WARNING,” Aisha sputters with a laugh.
“That it, quote, ‘wouldn’t be an easy memo to read.’ ”
“We’ve got news for you, Cliffy. None of them are easy to read.”
“What was he even talking about? It was more cryptic than usual.”
“Oh, oh, oh.” She leans toward me to faux-whisper: “I was the subtweet of that memo.”
I’m giddy. “No.”
“Oh, yes. Clifford wants to train me as a double-agent.”
“How . . . what . . .” I stammer.
“Because I also work for his ex-wife’s company. The original company.”
“You’re the ‘double-dipper,’ ” I piece together.
We both make “ew” faces at his word choice.
“He offered to ‘read me in’ for top-level clearance at Sweet Nothings. He wants me to look through his ideas file, and then he wants my detailed analysis of whether our concepts are better or worse than Leanne’s.”
“And now he’s worried Leanne has asked you to do the same, and you could conceivably be a triple agent?”
“Probably? Your guess is as good as mine.”
“How did that whole thing between Clifford and Leanne . . . occur?”
“Their marriage? I know what happened,” the masked hockey player says. Aisha and I nearly leap out of our skin at his arrival.
Also, his voice is familiar.
I squint at him, trying to convince myself this isn’t what I think it is. Trying to convince myself it’s not, in fact, Clifford who put on a stupid costume and a hockey mask in order to “infiltrate” his own meeting.
I can hear his thought process for such a stunt: I thought I’d mingle amongst you, an undercover boss if you will, so as not to intimidate anyone into censoring themselves. I want to hear the word on the street. I want to get a feel for the worker bees, learn what they really think.
“Yes, yes, the Story of Clifford and Leanne,” the hockey player intones, rubbing the chin portion of the mask. “Sometimes two creative souls yearn to collaborate in their pursuits, but the resulting Venn diagram does not overlap in the manner or circumference both had wished for. It’s tragic, but those are the thorns of life’s roses.”
It’s him.
Aisha refuses to make eye contact with me. It’s for the best; if we acknowledge the situation in any way, we’ll lose our shit, and possibly our jobs. Mercifully, Clifford moves to the middle of the room for his great unveiling.
He removes his mask and shouts, “Guys! It’s been me all along! Why am I dressed this way? Because, starting this moment, Sweet Nothings is the hockey team of online matchmaking! We brawl for our clients. Defense, offense, we’ve got your backs! Gather ’round, gather ’round, I’ve got an announcement to make.”
The twenty-odd group of employees encircle Clifford.
He’s a boisterous, forty-something white guy whose unadulterated excitement is infectious. I have a sense, momentarily, of what Leanne might have seen in him. Genial and eager, he’s the living embodiment of “jump and the net will appear.” In his bizarre memos he comes off as Michael Scott from The Office, but in person he’s more like Jim. Failure, he seems to imply, will only happen to those who aren’t lucky enough to throw their lot in with him. I can understand how someone might buy in to his total belief in himself, because what if, just what if, he’s right? I can also understand how, after a few years of this, it would wear thin. To put it mildly.
I tune back in to his monologue in time to hear the crux of his new idea: “. . . and I’m thinking, ‘There’s a tennis-themed dating site. What about a hockey-themed one?’ It would be part of the Sweet Nothings family, hosted under the same umbrella of services, and we’d be the in-house counsel, so to speak. We could call our ghostwriting services ‘Assists.’ Like in hockey, right? And there’d be a discount to anyone if you use our hockey messaging app. Instead of serves and lobs and aces and what have you, we’d have Cherry Picking, Clearing the Puck, and Off-Sides. For abusive behavior.”
“Do you intend to attract abusive users?” Aisha asks, sounding perplexed.
“Not on purpose,” he says happily, then turns his wide, hopeful eyes on me. “What do you think?”
“It’s interesting,” I say. “An interesting thought.”
What I don’t say: Cherry Picking sounds like a human trafficking site where people bid on virgins.
“Cool. Cool. Thanks for your honesty. I’m going to take the temp of the room, see what’s shaking.”
“He just admitted he’s going to rip off Game, Set, Match by changing nothing but the sports slang,” Aisha guffaws once he’s out of earshot.
“He really, really did. Should we, like, report this? And to whom?”
“It’s exactly what he did to Leanne. One of these days, someone’s going to sue his ass and win.”
“I believe it,” I reply.
We return t
o our previous table and finish our drinks.
“What’s it like working for Leanne?” I ask.
“It’s . . . smoother. Less ‘kill or be killed’ and more ‘we’re all in this together.’ I mean, don’t get me wrong. There are times when I can definitely see why she and Clifford were together for so long. But Leanne’s more . . . subversive with her business tactics.”
We both look over at Clifford, who is now cheering on two freelancers funneling beer through his hockey mask. “I guess it’d be hard to be less subversive,” I point out.
Aisha laughs. “I think Leanne’s full up on ghostwriters, but if that changes, I could let you know,” she offers.
“Would you? Thanks a lot.”
“And hey, if Clifford’s serious about creating a new dating platform, maybe he’ll throw some extra work your way to help write the profile questions.”
“If I could design a questionnaire, I’d eliminate all the cliché questions. No more ‘Which three albums would you bring to a desert island’ crap. I think there should be a section in their profiles about misremembered or misheard lyrics.”
“Yesss. I thought ‘Living on a Prayer’ by Bon Jovi was ‘Living on a Prairie’ for years,” Aisha replies, her eyes sparkling. “And I need to know how someone would react to that before I can entertain the notion of dating them.”
I really, really want us to be friends.
“I’d also want to know the weird places people go to zen out. For me it’s office supply stores.”
She looks at me for a beat. “I should introduce you to my brother. Well, actually, he’s my . . .”
I cut her off right away. “Thanks, but I’m not in the market right now.”
(Who would want to date a virtual shut-in?)
“You sure? He’s a great guy. Went through a bad breakup recently, not his fault, but—”
“I’ve never had a bad breakup. Probably because I’ve never had a good relationship,” I admit. Whoa, where’d that come from? This punch flask must be living up to its name. “Don’t the two go hand in hand?” I clarify. “The better it was, the more it hurts when it ends?”
“Maybe. I don’t actually think he should have been with her to begin with. But anyway, I could show you a picture. . . .”
“If he’s cute, that’ll make it tougher to say no,” I laugh. “But let’s talk later, okay? I’ve gotta run. My new client has a date straight from work and asked me to help her prep.”
“I’m going to take off, too. Secret-agent duties. Are you headed uptown or downtown?”
“I’m headed . . . left, whichever direction that is. Luckily, her office is only a few blocks away, so I can walk.”
* * *
By a “few” blocks, I mean twelve, and by the time I reach Blue Sky Family Practice, I’m a sweaty, frazzled mess, and my socks have sunk low in my combat boots, chafing one heel. That’s what happens when you’re convinced the subway’s going to collapse while you’re inside. Good times.
Clad in a skirt and blouse, Bree ushers me into the large, empty bathroom for patients, where she’s putting the finishing touches on her makeup. The wallpaper consists of pictures from vintage children’s books. I’m pretty sure it’s Bree’s handiwork.
I try to ignore the urine samples sitting on a counter by the wall. Most of her colleagues have left, except, apparently, the owner of the hand that reaches through a small wooden window to yank the samples away.
“ ’Night!’ Bree calls to the hand, which waves, tilting a urine sample this way and that.
Bree focuses on me.
“Did you come from the gym?” she asks kindly. I’m reminded again why I like her; she doesn’t mince words but at the same time assumes the best of people.
“Yes, I did.” Minimal Bluff. Power walking is exercise, after all. “Did you have a chance to read the messages from this morning? I printed a copy, if that’s easier.” I dig through my bag and hold the pages out to her.
She’d been brutally honest about skimming our first conversation. (She referred to it as “the blabby blabby.”)
“The dates are the important part,” she reiterates now. “The rest is noise.”
“Absolutely,” I assure her. “But reading it is a great way to prepare, see what you’ve ‘already discussed’ and take it from there.”
I watch intently as she reads our chat from this morning.
She doesn’t bat an eye at Andrew’s gross interruption.
My reaction to him is what sticks in her craw.
“Zoey! You said you weren’t going to be a grammar bitch.”
What—but—Jude was into it. He agreed with me. He likes this grammar bitch!
“Sorry, it’s just . . . if someone doesn’t care enough to write a good sentence, especially for the first impression—”
“You’re supposed to be acting like me, and I wouldn’t have cared. No one expects DMs to be Shakespeare.”
“Yup. You’re right,” I say in clipped tones. “If you don’t think I represented you well, or it’s not something you want to deal with, we can always cancel on Jude—”
“Hell no, have you seen his picture?”
“I have.” I nod gravely.
“Sex on a stick. Irish, too, right?”
“Scottish.”
“Either way. Me like-y what me see-y.”
And what you “read-y” is pure gold, but oh well. She flips to the next page like she’s stuck reading a thesis and her torment will never end. She’s bored.
“Dial down ‘the blabby blabby,’ ” I summarize through gritted teeth. “Got it.” But if it had been YOU “blabby-blabbing,” you might not have scored a date in the first place, so maybe a little gratitude is in order, eh, DuchessB?
“It’s all good. But hopefully he won’t have to message you again—hopefully I can take it from here. Nice job getting me this far, though, seriously. He’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
The operative word being “looking.” She certainly hasn’t absorbed much from his words.
Bree’s eyes widen at what she sees at the end of the last page, and her kindness dissolves, as if it’s been thrown in acid. “Why did you tell him I’d do the hair? That’ll take at least an hour.”
“Oh. Well, I can help, and he’s not expecting you until six thirty, so we have time—”
“You know what it looks like, right?”
“Kind of . . .”
Bree tosses the papers to the floor and yanks out her phone. Huffs some more and pulls up an endless array of Google Images of Mary, circa 1985.
“See? It’s a big commitment.”
Oh God. How could I have forgotten?
It’s not a cute side braid or a sexy, ribboned twist. It’s a pointed, one-and-a-half-foot triangle, made entirely out of hair, protruding from the back of her head like a traffic cone.
(Mary, regarding an invite from San Diego Comic-Con: “If they think I’m going to tear out what little hair I have left to wear the Pylon Party Hat, they need to triple my fee.” I also have a vague memory of a letter in her scrapbook, written to Lorne Michaels at Saturday Night Live: “Do I owe the Coneheads any royalties? Then again, I think I have plausible deniability. In outer space, no one can hear you scream (about copyrights) . . .”)
“What can I do? How can I help?” I ask gently.
“Bobby pins. As many as you can find. Now.”
When I return from my errand at, where else, Duane Reade, Bree’s in better spirits.
She’s changed into a minidress and freshened up her makeup. She reaches for the bobby pins I’m holding and secures the elaborate ’do while gazing at her reflection in the mirror. “You’re sure he loves Undersea as much as I do?”
“We’ve talked of little else.” Which you’d know if you’d read the messages!
God, what is wrong with me? Just because she doesn’t appreciate GreatSc0t’s humor on the page doesn’t mean she won’t appreciate his . . . attributes in person. (But if she doesn’t appreciate hi
s wordplay, should she really be allowed to meet him in person?)
It never bothered me when my first client, Tess, dated her matches. It’s moot, anyway; what I told Aisha was true: I’m not dateable in my current state.
“Good luck, Bree. I hope you have a terrific night.”
But I cross my fingers behind my back.
CHAPTER 9
MILES
Huh. That’s a memo I wasn’t expecting from Leanne. Has she been feeling nostalgic for Clifford? And if that’s the case, what does that say about my chances of getting over Jordan, who is at least 90 percent less loathsome than Leanne’s ex. Though, considering the cheating, maybe I should bump that down to 85.
The brewery with the beer flight specials Jude wants to test out happens to be located not too far from Dylan and Charles’s apartment.
That’s one reason for me to stop by during their date. Another is that I woke up this morning to a stack of Metro newspapers fanned out across the mahogany and glass coffee table in front of the sofa. They were all open to the classifieds section and every single available apartment was circled. Charles doesn’t have any classes today, which means he could conceivably be home all day, and having to confront your passive aggressor is just awkward for everyone.
And, finally, I admit it. A part of me wouldn’t mind seeing Bree in person, hearing if her humor translates IRL. Hey, I’m supposed to be empathizing with my client’s desires, right?
As it turns out, I can’t miss her. Holy crap, she actually did do the hair. It stands about a foot above the crowd, a perfect yellow isosceles. And based on Jude’s gawking expression as he shakes her hand, I think I forgot to tell him about it, probably because I thought she was joking.
The truth is, she looks . . . hot. Obviously, she’s an attractive girl but this adds a ballsy, nerdy element that takes it to a different level. The two of them together look like something out of a catalog (currently, maybe something out of a cosplay catalog, but still). And if Jude doesn’t quite appreciate that now, I’m just going to have to huddle with him later and get him up to speed on what a rare find she seems to be.